A dish best served cold
by MLaw
Summary: Illya could feel in in the air, like and electric charge dancing across his skin. Tonight he would kill a man, not for a mission, but for revenge. Originally posted on section7mfu for the Song Story challenge. The prompt, the moody you-tube video of Phil Collin's "In the air tonight." Number 17 in the Illya series


His view from above was unobstructed, though he was hidden in shadows, balancing like cat on the narrow ledge of the stark concrete building, so typical of Moskva.

The street lamps lining the sidewalks gave him ample light, allowing him to see the comings and goings along the length of the block. There were a few couples here and there enjoying a late night stroll, but he wasn't interested in any of them...only one man warranted his attention.

Illya Kuryakin could feel it, the tension in the night air enveloping him, putting him on edge. He would do it tonight, what he'd been trained to do. He would kill a man, not under orders though, but for revenge.

The Russian raised his binoculars, studying in the distance, searching for Vladimir Dokolov, a man he'd met only once a year ago at the winter palace in Leningrad. It was the first and last time they'd ever met, though no introductions had been made. He didn't know if the man might even remember him, but it really didn't matter.

All Illya Kuryakin knew was that Dokolov was a cur, not worthy of being saved even if he was drowning. The man had killed someone very dear to Illya's heart... a girl named Natasha Asimov. He'd seen it with his own two eyes, but could do nothing to stop it. If ever there was an ill-timed moment in his lift that would be the one that haunted him the most.

Illya had been trying to find a way to free his friend from her life of servitude to Dokolov and his hideous wife Olga. Natasha was nursemaid to the man's son.* That was all he knew when they met purely by accident after so many years. Those few brief minutes at the Winter Palace in Leningrad tore at Illya, to see her suffering. Months later he received a letter from her, telling him the child was her's after having being raped by Vladimir. Illya was was livid, though one looking at him would never know that as he kept his emotions in check at all times.

He'd gone to Dokolov's home in Moskva, not sure what he was going to do, perhaps kidnap Natasha, and the child if she wanted him...but there was no real plan in place.

That came once he arrived, and while surveilling the residence from the roof across the street, he witnessed, through his binoculars, the murder of Natasha Asimov. He saw Vladimir shoot her at point blank range, and Illya fell to his knees, fighting back his tears while swearing to avenge his friend.

Kuryakin was patient, gathering information on Dokolov's habits, anything that painted a picture of the man, how he lived, where he went and what he did.

And now Illya sat on waiting for the man. Time to exact vengeance, it was a simple as that. As soon as Vladimir arrived, he would aim his rifle and snuff out the man's life the way Vladimir had done to Natasha.

His attention was called to a man he saw walking down the block, just as his intelligence had said Dokolov would. At 8 pm he would arrive at the Yar restaurant, the oldest in the city, on the ground floor of the Sovietskaya Hotel, popular for its festive Gypsy music and decadent menus. There Vladimir would meet with his lover, eat dinner and leave with her for their assignation some time after half-past nine. Not at the hotel, somewhere else...each week the location changed, only the rendezvous at the restaurant remained the same.

The spacious Red Hall of the Yar was nearly empty, and apparently that was the way Vladimir liked it; meeting his mistress there and the less eyes, the better. Illya watched as the woman arrived moments after him. She was beautiful, blonde and the polar opposite of the wife Olga...that hideous mole-faced creature that no doubt Dokolov had married for political purposes. *

Kuryakin waited patiently, ticking away the moments until he would kill the bastard. Time passed slowly, until the two lovers were finally done eating and drinking the restaurant and emerged onto the street...

Illya raised his rifle, looking into the scope and drew a bead on Vladimir's forehead as he stood there, speaking to the woman. The question Illya asked himself...should he kill her as well? Or was she merely an innocent caught up in Doklov's web of lies.

He had rehearsed the motions, exhaling and slowly squeezing the trigger. Illya envisioned the silenced round finding it's mark and making Dokolov's head snap backwards; spattering blood on his companion's face. The dead man would collapse to the ground, and the woman would no doubt shriek.

The plan was to leave the rifle on the rooftop. It could not be traced to him, as he wore gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints, not even on the rounds. He might be tempted to pick up the single brass casing that would lay at his feet. A memento perhaps of his revenge for his friend.

"No," Illya chastised himself, his memories would have to suffice.

He would leap to the rooftop of the next building and the one after that, finally descending down the stairs to the street level beyond the crowd that would slowly begin to gather outside the restaurant.

This was how Illya Kuryakin had pictured it all, over and over again in his head. Yet he found the scenario still unsatisfying; killing Dokolov this way was too anonymous. The man needed to stare death in the face, look upon his killer and know the reason why.

"For Natasha," Illya would say to him. Yes, face to face, that's how he would do away with Vladimir Dokolov... with his evil grin. He should know who is killer is, whether he remembered Illya or not, it did not matter.

.

The next week, it was for real as if Illya Nickovich Kuryakin stood waiting in the shadows, waiting all his life in an alleyway next to the Yar... feeling now the tingling anticipation crawling along his skin, it was if the air had an electrical charge to it.

Dokolov and his blonde companion stepped out of the restaurant just after half-nine, as he'd done before. The man was foolish to let his comings and goings be so predictable.

Illya melted from the darkness, walking in front of the man and woman, standing just out of the circuitous glow of the streetlamp.

"Vladimir Dokolov?" He practically growled the name.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

He stepped closer now to the couple, "Do you recognize me?" Illya asked softly.

Dokolov stared for a moment. "Yes, you are that young whelp I saw with Natasha at the Hermitage last year. I caught her writing to you, the ungrateful little bitch."

"Ah, so you do recall my face, but now know my name. I am Illya Nickovich Kuryakin, and Natasha Asimov was a dear friend of mine...and I saw what you did to her with my own two eyes. I saw you murder her."

"Ridiculous! You are drunk Comrade Kuryakin and the night plays tricks on drunken eyes. I did no such thing to Natasha. She committed suicide."

"No more lies, Dokolov. Now it is time for you to pay for your crimes of rape and murder. This is for Natasha." Illya snarled.

The Colonel took a step back, trying to shake his arm free of his companion's nervous grasp.

"Vladimir," her voice shook," I'm frightened, make him go away."

Dokolov pulled his right arm free, going for his weapon nestled in his shoulder holster under his jacket.

Illya was quicker, flicking open his pearl handled switchblade and throwing it; the knife finding its mark in Dokolov's throat, killing him instantly and sending him down to the sidewalk with a muffled thud.

Young Kuryakin grabbed the woman in one swift motion, covering her mouth with his hand before she could scream.

"Ekaterina Pushkin, I know who you are and where you are from. If you want to live, you will say nothing of this. There are two things that can happen to you, things could be made to look like you did this and be blamed for the murder of Vladimir Dokolov or you could move away and be forever silent, and safe. But know this, I will find you and you will meet the same fate as he if you say one word of this, ever."

He removed his hand from her mouth, "Do not make a sound. Am I clear?"

"Yes," she whispered, shaking her head." I will never tell anyone, I promise. Thank you for sparing my life." Ekaterina looked down at Dokolov's corpse and kicked him in the side.

"I never really liked him...I was just using him to have some fun."

"Perhaps you need to be more careful with the choices you make in life, now go." Illya handed her some Kopeks and waved her off. "Go find yourself a better man to whore yourself to for now."

The woman pulled her cloak tightly about her and ran off into the night.

Illya knelt beside the body, withdrawing his blade...the one Natasha had given him so long ago with which to protect himself. How ironic that it was used to dispatch her murderer.

He wiped the blood from the blade on Dokolov's jacket, and reaching into his pockets, Illya took the man's wallet, taking the contents. There was enough money there to keep him comfortable in extra food for months. He took the Colonel's Tokarov as well, making it look like it was a robbery and not an assassination.

Heading out into the darkness, Illya muttered the last words he would ever speak about this.

"Rest well Natasha Asimov, you have been avenged."

He returned to the small room he had rented, retrieving Natasha's son from the landlady who had offered to care for the child while he was gone. Illya had told her the boy was his, and needed to go do some errands. The woman gladly obliged as she had a grandchild the same age and could never get to see him enough. Olga Dokolov having no maternal instincts had given him up without argument, since the boy was not her's, neither physically or emotionally.

She'd asked if Vladimir was going to die tonight, but Illya gave her no answer. She somehow felt her husband would not be long for this world, and that seemed to suit her. She mumbled something about being able to pursue her athletic career as a shot-putter now that the baby would no longer be in her way. Those were the last words she said as she gladly handed the baby called Vladimir Vladimirovich over to Kuryakin.

"Make Vladimir Dokolov suffer,' she said, closing the door in the blond man's face.

Illya bundled up the child, now renamed Luka Petrovich, in his blankets, and got into the car he'd borrowed from the motor pool at GRU headquarters at Kholdynka airfield; taking the child outside of the city to the waiting family who would adopt him. Kuryakin's story to them was that his wife had died and he had no money to care for his son. He could not bear the thought of him being raised in a State Orphanage and wanted the boy to have both a mother and a father to love and care for him.

The husband and wife, Pyotr and Ludmilla Vlacic, gladly took Luka, and agreed to move away to somewhere in Georgia, where they could not be found. Illya told them he wanted no second thoughts on his part and if he did not know where they lived, then he could not come take the boy away from them.

He lied so easily and they believed him completely; the money he'd taken from Vladimir Dokolov, he gave to the couple, and left, not turning back. It was never good to turn back, he told himself.

Illya Kuryakin left the country, returning to his assignment in Paris; his vendetta now complete, with was nothing more to be said or thought about it again.

That night as he lay in his bed, he envisioned the smiling face of his friend Natasha Asimov, and that image was enough to let him fall into a dreamless sleep.

It was done.

.

* Ref "White Nights" . and "The Orphanage." .


End file.
